


Wednesday Night at Slim's

by VinRouge84



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Fluff, POV Original Character, Romance, Slow Dancing, Songfic, Walk Into A Bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 14:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11899407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VinRouge84/pseuds/VinRouge84
Summary: A small town bartender is intrigued by the tall guy and the redhead who pop in one slow night.





	Wednesday Night at Slim's

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, everybody! Who likes songfic?! 
> 
> *crickets*
> 
> Anyway, hopefully everyone has seen Post-Modern Prometheus by now.

It’s a slow night at Slim’s, which is why I notice them immediately when they walk through the door. They’re not regulars. Not too many people come in that I don’t already know. These two don’t look like they belong here.

Don’t get me wrong–-this is a friendly dive and anyone is welcome. I’ve been tending bar here for almost three years now, and it’s nice to see some unfamiliar faces. Most of the familiar faces look like the lost members of ZZ Top. Tonight at the dartboard, we’ve got Jerry and Angus, local housepainters. They come in smelling like fumes and leave smelling like tequila. Old Harris is on his usual stool at the bar, sipping bourbon while reading yesterday’s sports pages. A few seats down are Pete and Randy, cousins pounding through their third pitcher of Budweiser and second order of hot wings. These guys may get a little rowdy at the odd pool tournament, but they’re basically good country people.

My point is, these new folks don’t exactly fit in. One of them is a woman, for one thing. They look at least ten years younger than most of the other patrons. Both are wearing suits. He’s tall. Small-ish eyes, big-ish nose. She’s tiny. Bright red hair. Kind of cute. The barflies all turn to get a look at them–-mostly her–-but they get back to darts, sports pages, and wings quickly enough.

The strangers, thankfully oblivious to any gawking, shrug off their coats and settle into the two-top by the jukebox. I wonder if they’re in town on business, but the truth is, there isn’t much business in these parts. That’s kind of why I pour booze for a living. I keep meaning to get out of dodge, but I’m not sure where I’d go. I’ve never been much of a city boy, anyhow. 

Just based on the way they’re dressed, though, I assume the tall guy and the redhead are city people. Co-workers, most likely. They don’t look like they’re on a date or anything. I overhear them discussing files and reports. Yep-–business. After a minute, the tall guy comes up to the bar to order their drinks. He must know what she wants already. Maybe they’ve worked together a while. 

“What’ll it be?” I ask.

“Hey there, two gin and tonics. One with extra lime, please. Thanks.”

“You got it.”

The man offers a polite nod to Old Harris while I grab a bottle off the shelf. He’s lucky it’s a Wednesday-–2 for $7 well drink special. I double up on lime in one glass. That’s for the lady, I’d guess.

“It’s $7 for the two.”

He slaps down a ten and walks back to the table with the drinks before I can get change out of the register. $3 tip for two simple G&Ts? Not too shabby. See, I like the unfamiliar faces.

The redhead takes the glass with extra lime (called it). Almost as soon as they start chatting again, the tall guy picks the cocktail straw out of his G&T and starts chewing on it–-someone's got an oral fixation. Then he reaches into her glass and grabs one of her bonus slices of lime. She looks offended, but not really. He mumbles something out of the corner of his mouth that’s not chewing on the straw and she laughs. She’s got a nice smile. 

They seem really friendly with each other, which is cool. I like my co-workers fine, but we’re not exactly friends. I don’t have a lot in common with Beth, the weekend bartender. She’s older than my mom and waited tables at the Pearl Diner for 30 years until it burned down a few years back. Al, the fry cook, isn’t what you’d call a great conversationalist. I think the only words I’ve ever heard him speak are “order up.”

The redhead excuses herself to use the restroom and the tall guy stands up to inspect the jukebox. I’ll be honest-–it’s not great. Hasn’t been updated in years. For the regulars, it’s just occasional background noise for consuming beer and onion rings. I almost want to apologize out loud to the tall guy for the crappy selection until I see him reach into his pocket, pick out some quarters, and feed them into the machine. Obviously he found something, but instead of punching in his choice, he waits, keeping his eye on the direction of the restroom. As soon she swings the door open, he goes for it.

She stops in her tracks when she hears the opening chords to “Walking in Memphis” by Marc Cohn. 

Obviously it means something to her or them. It’s an okay tune, I guess, but it never struck me as an _our song_. You know what I mean-–the kind high school sweethearts squeal about whenever it plays, or a first dance at a wedding type deal. Stuff like “At Last” or the one from that Richard Gere movie where he’s in the army but it’s actually a romance or whatever. Anyway, can co-workers even have an _our song_?

“Come on, Scully,” he says, holding out his hand to her. 

First of all, what kind of name is _Scully_? I had to have heard that wrong. Second of all, she seems embarrassed. She drops her head into her hands, shaking it back and forth for a second but she does step toward him, extending her hand to meet his. He grabs it as soon as she’s close enough and pulls her quickly to him, mumbling something about…Cher? I don’t know, but it makes her laugh again. She really does have a nice smile.

Even though the redhead is wearing heels, she’s still like, super short. I told you she was tiny. Her head tucks right under his chin and they sway back and forth. Her eyes are closed and he’s got a goofy grin plastered on his face. I might too if I were him. The more I look at her, the prettier I realize she is. Unless they’re plain weirded out by the sight of actual dancing taking place at Slim’s, Pete and Randy seem to realize it too because they're both staring. Pete is straight up drooling, but it’s entirely possible he’s had too much beer. I’ll probably be calling him a cab shortly.

I’m starting to strongly suspect the tall guy and the redhead might not work together after all. Doesn’t explain the suits, but I’ve definitely never danced with any of my co-workers. Then again, Al the fry cook isn’t really my type. But these two here are dancing awfully close. And awfully slow. Too slow for the beat of the song. No, this is not professional workplace behavior. Especially when his hand wraps around her waist a little tighter once the chorus hits.

_Then I'm walking in Memphis_  
_Walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale_  
_Walking in Memphis_  
_But do I really feel the way I feel?_

__The song’s not even over when he pulls back a bit and they look at each other. Even from where I stand, I can tell her eyes are really blue–-same color as the Bombay Sapphire bottle I pulled for their drinks. I hear him ask if she wants to get out of here and she nods, shuffling out of his embrace so they can grab their coats. She didn’t even finish half of her G &T. Usually it takes more than a few drinks for my customers to, well…you know--get in the mood. But that’s for awkward third dates. Something tells me these two are a little past that._ _

__The redhead turns to the bar and says “thanks.” She’s beautiful, I finally decide. I’m kind of surprised I didn’t notice the first time I saw her. The tall guy guides her toward the exit._ _

__“Have a good night,” I holler back at them. Seems like they will._ _


End file.
